


Lead A Horse To Water

by noctgarr



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, im gay and i like soft shit, really light on the enemies half of this TBh lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctgarr/pseuds/noctgarr
Summary: “ Arthur was not sure why, of all the men Dutch could have chosen to drag along without a gag, it had to be this one. He was pathetic, and annoyingly so. Surely, there were quieter O’Driscolls about, or ones with a shred a dignity, at least. ”---What begins with canned salmon and a moment of weakness blossoms into two kindred spirits finding that they do indeed warm to each other and form an unlikely bond.





	1. Chapter 1

It'd been a little over two weeks since Arthur had persuaded the Van der Linde’s newest addition to join them in their travels east. In other words, it had been sixteen days of the O’Driscoll's near constant pleas for mercy and sixteen nights of listening to him cry himself to sleep. It was his sniffles as wet and delicate as dew drops that kept Arthur from sleep now, just as they did last night, and the night before that. Keeping him hostage like this might have been a necessary evil in these troubled times, but it wasn't right, and it wasn't nothing Dutch had done before, Arthur knew that much. To restrict a man's freedom wasn't a part of their creed. 

Morals aside, Arthur was not sure why, of all the men Dutch could have chosen to drag along without a gag, it had to be this one. He was pathetic, and annoyingly so. Surely, there were quieter O’Driscolls about, or ones with a shred a dignity, at least.

...Or, maybe not.

There was a reason O’Driscoll was a dirty word amongst the van der Lindes. It was the namesake of a vile man. Every dream Dutch instilled in hearts and minds of his crew; every plan to tame a piece of the west to live peacefully on, Colm O’Driscoll spat on it all. A bloodthirsty old man through and through, and his crew not much better. Guns for hire, cold and greedy folk with an axe to grind, a spite for life itself. Like Dutch, they thirst for freedom and wealth, but felt no itch to extend either to those in need, felt no ties to their brothers in arms. It was easy to come by folk like that. Arthur supposed all of them were once like that, before Dutch.

As wrong as it felt to keep him a prisoner, there was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that this man was the same.

Moonlight poured in from the back of Arthur's lean-to, casting harsh shadows across the tabletop and illuminating the tin of salmon he held above his head. Never had he held such a luxury in such scrutiny. More often than not, Arthur was digging into that pure, canned goodness before he could finish reading the label; but now he found himself considering it very carefully; flipping it over and then back again, learning about all the questionable preservatives in the ingredients he couldn't even pronounce.

" _You're Arthur, right? You seem like a decent fella._ " The boy had said to him that morning, begging for even just a scrap of his food, of his horse's food; anything. " _Please._ " 

He was a poor judge of character. That was what Arthur had told him and he truly believed it, but even he could tell he was beginning to sound like a broken record. Never had Arthur met a truly rotten man that had to prove it as often as he did. All it would take would be to stop giving in so easily to his more charitable tendencies, but.

He pressed the cool metal against his forehead with a loaded sigh, eyes twisting shut as he came to grips with the losing battle he fought against his conscience. 

"Guess you might as well be on with it, Morgan, you damned fool." He grumbled to himself no louder than snake's rattle, pocketing the salmon as he rose begrudgingly to his feet.

Arthur wasn’t exactly sure why he did it. Maybe because the O'Driscoll didn't seem like a feller that needed shootin' nor savin'. Or maybe because the whole world seemed just a little too grim without starving an already scrawny man half to death. 

That wasn’t to say Arthur trusted him, he didn't trust the O'Driscoll further than he could throw him. (Which to his credit, was probably still further than he could throw Micah.) But he could trust the rope around his wrists. Just like he could trust he would be dead by morning if he was caught on this fool's venture; but his quiet steps didn't falter. He weaved through sleeping bodies and precariously placed bottles until he laid eyes on the boy, shaking and crying like the day he was born.

"O'Driscoll." Arthur stopped just short of the man's splayed feet, voice dangerously low and searching for any reason to deny him the flaked fish soaked in sea brine he had stored safely in his satchel.

"M-mister?"

"I brought you something."

"Oh god,” He visibly flinched before Arthur could elaborate, weak legs scrambling to find their footing in the loose dirt around him, trying to stand and appeal to his kidnapper’s humanity, “P-please don't hurt me."

"Something good, dummy." He presented him with the tin, watching the captive’s eyes sparkle when they caught sight of moonshine on tin-plated steel with a faint twinkle of his own. "Now sit down nice and easy an' I'll give it to ya." 

"Oh, oh, t-thank you, sir!” His voice raised a few joyful octaves, nearly waking the entire camp in his excitement. 

"Pipe down, would you?" Arthur hissed, shutting him up with an angry palm over his lips. His eyes darted wildly over his shoulder to assess the pause in Hosea’s sleep, only relaxing when the conman’s kitten-like snore resumed.

"You damned idiot.” He balled his fist in the man’s soiled shirt and thrust him against the tree, “You wanna eat or not?"

"Yes, mister.” He whimpered and Arthur sighed deeply, releasing him, ”...Oh, I knew you was decent, mister. I knew it." 

“I ain't nothin’.” Tired eyes sunk down to the task at hand, calloused fingertips worked to peel back the soft metal he plunged his knife into, releasing that irresistible, salty smell that made both of their mouths water. "...You're a real sorry sight, y’know that? Real pathetic. S'no wonder Colm wanted ta slap you silly. I have half a mind to myself."

"You saw that?"

"You bet your ass I did." Arthur laughed quietly, relishing in boyish delight as he recalled the almost slapstick nature of the punishment, before dipping his knife into the tin and pressing it to hungry lips, "You'll get more 'en a slap if you step outta line here."

"So far." The boy chewed, "All y'all ’ve done is starve me, an' you c-can't even do that proper."

"Don't go gettin' cocky now."

"I seen what Colm do to his enemies, an' he don't treat his as-soshi-ates much kinder." His tongue slowed a little on the longer word with a hint of uncertainty, common drawl from folk who don't read much. "If you ain't gonna kill me I dunno why you don't jus' let me go..."

"...Listen. Kieran, right?" The boy perked up at the sound of his name, seemingly shocked that Arthur; big, dumb brute that he was, had remembered it at all. Frankly, so was Arthur, so he quieted him with another morsel of salmon before he could quip about it, "If what you say 'bout Colm is true, there ain’t no running now. Yer a dead man no matter what. The law don't want ya, Colm sure as hell don't want ya. How I see it, safest place for you is tied to this tree. We the only ones that haven't made up our minds about you yet."

Kieran swallowed his food thickly, head dipping damn near between his thighs like it had so many times since they first strung him up to this tree. So frail and delicate he was. Arthur was only faintly aware that the man teetered over him a few inches when he stood with how small he constantly made himself. Before he knew it, fresh tears painted Kieran’s cheeks as reality weighed heavy on his shoulders.

"C’mon, O’Driscoll, dry those tears.” Arthur sighed, fishing in his vest pocket for his handkerchief, producing it with two quick tugs and dabbing at Kieran’s reddened cheeks; swollen and raw from drowning in his saline sorrows. “Be a man."

Kieran sniffed once, peering at Arthur through dark, greased locks with a spark of amber in his eyes that shone as bright as his conviction.

“I ain't an O'Driscoll.”

For the first time in weeks, Arthur thought he might actually believe him.

“Atta boy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sun beat down on the overlook, thawing frozen ground and encouraging new growth. The only evidence that remained of the blizzard they narrowly survived was the cool breeze that rolled down the hills from the mountaintops, prickling the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck. Calloused thumbs wedged themselves between his gun belt and his waistband, hips cocked and lazily chewing a wad of tobacco. The camp wasn’t much to look at, but folks had finally begun to settle and go about their business again; Arthur was glad for that. Lazy spring morning that it was, those that read pushed their noses into their books, while others pressed their lips to the bottle, or simply moseyed about. The peace allowed Arthur’s mind to wander.

And as it often did now, his mind wandered to Kieran. He was certainly a curious one, a puzzle Arthur just couldn’t quite piece together. As much as he and the boys would joke about the O’Driscolls being cowardly, Kieran didn’t fit the mold. Awful indignant for a feller tied to a tree. Weak, bargaining; but indignant and carried himself with an earnsty that was difficult to ignore.

That said, no one was keen to ride out with him to Six Point Cabin; him being an O’Driscoll and all, it was almost certainly an ambush they’d be lead to. So naturally Arthur leapt at the opportunity and naturally, Arthur was the only one to nearly die on the excursionー in fact, in the moment he was sure he had. He really ought to stop being so quick to the toe the line between life and death.

“ _You alright?!_ ” Kieran cried out, knock kneed and doubled over in fear, not unlike a spooked deer. Fear that he’d been a second too late, that Arthur had died, no doubt. Arthur could still recall how dread seemed to seep into every inch of him like blood through a patch of gauze. Of course, Kieran must have known he would be the next to fall for appearing to betray them, but Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it than that. If there had been a sliver of genuine concern laced in his cry. It wasn’t long ago Arthur had done him a kindness, after all, even if it was just to quiet his belly aching.

He thanked him then, albeit weakly and lacking conviction; all his usual surety escaping with the bit of his soul that left his body when he peered down the barrel of a loaded gun. Some days had passed since his brush with death, but he intended to thank the boy proper. Maybe then he’d stop gloating about it at every opportunity. 

A flash of deep fuchsia caught Arthur’s eye and interrupted his thoughts, Mary Beth’s ankle length skirt sweeping like a brushstroke across new spring grass. Light feet carried her gracefully to the shade of her tent with a cup of coffee, eager to flip through dogeared pages of her her romance novel. Kieran too perked up at the sight of her, hands folding over one another as she passed.

The feeling seemed mutual. No sooner had they returned from Six Point Cabin, the young lady had taken quite a liking to the boy, he noted. An almost sisterly affection bloomed within her, just as quick to tease him as she was to open her heart, now that the pretense of him being a prisoner no longer interfered. She suddenly stopped a few paces from her tent, turning around to face the boy.

“Whew, boy, you _stink_.” Fingers came to pinch her nostrils to illustrate just how much. 

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle at the O’Driscoll’s expense. Couldn’t even catch a break from those who liked him.

“‘Case you missed it, I ain’t exactly been in charge a’ my own hygiene past couple weeks, Miss.” Kieran quipped, toeing the dirt.

“Well, you ain’t got any excuse now. You’re lucky Mrs. Grimshaw didn’t catch you smelling like this first.” Kieran paled a little at the mention of the gang matriarch, as he should have, she had a more terrifying presence than Dutch himself, “A change of clothes might help a little, c’mere.”

She set her coffee on the ground gingerly, popping the lid to the chest tucked to the back of her shelter, then beckoned him over. Together they crowded the moderately sized box, Mary Beth piling a few folded shirts in Kieran’s lap and tossing the rest aside. Arthur watched her pinch the seams of a few different shirts to Kieran’s waist before he finally spit his tobacco and approached them.

“Them’s Davey’s old clothes, ain’t they?”

“Yeah.” Mary Beth smiled gently, holding up a denim jacket next, “The girls n’ I did some laundry before that whole Blackwater mess.”

Her face fell.

“Haven’t been worn since.” Her gaze remained low, unbuttoning the jacket with quick and nimble fingers, “But s’good thing, ain’t it? Look, they’re a perfect fit.”

“They were definitely a lanky couple a’ fellers, those brothers, weren’t they?”

“Lanky n’ _mean_.” She added, peering suspiciously at Kieran through the corner of her eyes with a barely contained smile, “Always the gangly ones.”

“Eyup.”

“M’not lanky.” Kieran protested with a blush as fierce as a sunburn, “I’m… lean.”

“Sure.” Arthur laughed, “Hear that, Mary Beth? This one’s _lean_ n’ mean.”

“Oooh, like a wolf.” She teased, bumping shoulders with the mortified boy.

“I reckon we best be watching our hides now that he ain’t tied to that tree no more. I mean, whew,” Arthur faked a shudder, “Who knows what he’s capable of.”

“‘Specially being an O’Driscoll and all.”

“I,” Kieran gaped at the insult, shooting to his feet with his new clothes in hand, “I ain’t an O’Driscoll neither!”

Fists shook at his side intensely, and his blush only worsened the longer he endured the amusement at his expense, but he found himself utterly lost for words. A frustrated sigh finally broke the brief silence before he turned around and stormed away.

“Oh, there he goes again.” Mary Beth remarked with a hint of laughter in her sigh, “S’pose we pushed a little far.”

“On the contrary, Miss Gaskill, I don’t think we pushed far enough.” Arthur fitted a cigarette between his smug lips, offering her the box before he lit it, “Wanna see if we can make ‘is ears steam next time.”

She giggled at that, picking a smoke from the package and leaning into his lit match.

“He’s pretty funny all flustered like that.” A long, slow drag of her cigarette, then a puff of smoke from deep in her lungs, “I like him.”

“Sure.” Arthur mused into his cigarette, “He’s alright, I s’pose.”

“He saved your life.”

“Dumb luck s’what that was.” Arthur mumbled as he watched Kieran stomp away, suddenly remembering why he interrupted them in the first place. “Finger prob’ly slipped on the trigger.”

“If you say so.” She relented, lips pursed into a smile.

He exhaled one last smoky breath, then snubbed his cigarette out on the ground, twisting it further into the dirt with the toe of his boot. 

He would thank him later.


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, Kieran cleaned up rather nicely with a bath and a new set of clothes. He kept the jacket for cold weather, but no longer did he wear Colm’s colors. That unsightly green handkerchief that was practically uniform for the O’Driscolls had been nowhere to be found for some time now. Arthur wouldn’t be surprised to find it burned in the fire pit one morning, with how vehemently the boy denied his allegiance to the enemy gang.

In fact, it was as though life had been breathed back into him. Hollow cheeks began to fill with shape and color, appearing softer and younger from hard work and a steady diet. He stood a little taller now, looked a little more free, draped in his dead man’s denim, farmer’s hat and timid smile. 

Only a few sips into his beer and somehow, a loose gesture of him began to appear on a page of Arthur’s journal. Only firelight lit his canvas, as the sun’s ambiance had long since sunk beneath the horizon, and it’s warm flicker tossed the shadow of his hand about as he sketched. It was a mild annoyance when it came time to shade, but one he had become accustomed to. There was little time to draw during the day.

Kieran’s narrow, drooping shoulders were carefully rendered in the center of the page, many light downward strokes etched into his back to capture the grain of Davey’s old jacket. Just a sliver of his face was visible from behind his dark, shoulder length hair. A silhouette so hauntingly unfamiliar that it stood out easily in Arthur’s mind.

_Sometimes I forget about Blackwater, and when I do, I catch the back of him in the corner of my eye and it’s like Davey’s still with us. Don’t help that the boy acts like a ghost, neither._

Preoccupied as he was in his musings, Arthur was not oblivious to the pointed stares slung at him from over the back of a well-groomed horse every now and then. It seemed as though their eyes had been meeting more and more as of late. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume Kieran was plotting to kill him, but the truth of the matter was that Arthur deserved this childish treatment, as he often did when it came to interpersonal matters. He had been just as childish after all, bullying the man that saved his life and egging others on to do the same in place of thanks. 

Once a beacon of decency, _The Bringer Of Canned Salmon_ ; now Arthur was surely nothing more than the big, bad brute that kidnapped him back in Colter. 

Weren’t his fault Kieran made it so easy. Even now, he’s not sure he could hold his tongue long enough to express his gratitude. The boy just had such a goofy way about him, so easily baited into being the butt of a joke without a wit sharp enough to dig himself out. It was probably better off this way. Nothing good ever came of getting close to Arthur anyway.

Like a gopher, those dark, fiery eyes peeked at him from behind his horse again. The boy must have thought himself so stealthy, because never had Arthur seen a man so rattled to be acknowledged with his classic two-fingered salute. In fact, his eyebrows nearly shot clean off his face before he ducked back under the cover of his horse that continued to graze in spite of their silent banter. 

Arthur chuckled to himself, finishing off the bottle that hung loose in his hand, then tossing it aside as he stood and stretched his back. As cute as it was, this game would get tired fast if it wasn’t put to rest.

From across camp, Arthur sauntered up to him. Forearms spilled casually over Branwen’s saddle, looking down at the boy that cowered below him on the other side.

“Look, Kieran.” Arthur itched his neck, “I,”

“Oh, Arthur, hi. Y’caught me starin’, huh?” Kieran intuited sheepishly, “I, uh, I wanted t-to thank you.”

Wait.

“What?” Arthur’s face scrunched up, confusion showing plain as day. The boy popped up to his feet again.

“F-fer sparing me back at Six Point.” He elaborated, then looked over his shoulder, cupping a hand around his mouth, “An’ fer feeding me on that tree, a’ course.” He added, hushed. “I know you don’t like me much... but, I’ll work hard! I am not a bad fella. You’ll soon warm to me.”

He hadn’t expected that. He expected Kieran’s righteous indignation, to be made to feel guilty and apologize. He wasn’t sure what to do with the shy bundle of nerves before him expressing his earnest gratitude. Both his palms pat the back of the saddle with an awkward sense of finality, about ready to leave this interaction so he could return to his tent and process it.

“Just... see that I do.” Arthur mumbled finally.

“Oh, you will!” Kieran chirped. In his excitement, he clapped his hands over both of Arthur’s. His palms were clammy and flushed with warmth, much like his face appeared to be in the light of the campfire. “Ah, s-sorry, mister.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to be rattled. Kieran’s slender hands had long since retracted, busying himself with scratching his patchy beard instead, still the gunslinger’s mouth gaped a little. When was the last time he’d been touched like that, he wondered.

“S’nothing.” Arthur cleared his throat, hand twitching at his side uselessly, “‘Sides, I wanted to thank you, too. For... saving m’ life.”

“Well, yeah, of course!”

“...Right.” He swallowed, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Good talk, O’Driscoll.”

“Ugh. I ain’t-”

Arthur turned on his heel with a wave tossed over his shoulder before he could finish. The warmth in his palms followed him all the way back to his tent, where it finally spread to his cheeks as he slammed his journal shut; foolishly left open to the most recent page.


	4. Chapter 4

Clemen’s point. They were a long way from where they ought to be now; and the O’Driscoll in their midst had long since become the least of their worries. For all his talk about proving himself, he only managed to prove how pitiable he was. Though a few still delighted in tormenting him, most had warmed to him and Arthur was no exception. He actually found his presence to be calming. There was something to be said about being in the company of someone with a greater anxiety than his own, it mellowed his nerves enough to not upset his, allowed him to be strong.

A mutual trust even began to develop, despite his best efforts to the contrary. He supposed he _had_ saved Arthur’s life, as everyone was so keen to remind him.

The only thing that puzzled him was that Kieran didn’t strike him as a good shot, as jittery and excitable as he was. Only man Arthur knew that could match his energy was Sean, but Sean couldn’t shoot a man from a yard away if he had a magnifying glass for a scope. Perhaps he just got lucky, and extended that luck to Arthur by being in the right place at the right time.

Either way, Arthur was intent on finding out.

“ _Mister_ Duffy.” The sing song quality in his voice tickled the air around them, and subsequently the boy’s shoulders, twitching once before he relaxed, “D’you fancy yourself a betting man?”

“Not really.” Kieran scoffed, shoulders falling as he scrubbed polish into the saddle in his lap, “Y’mighta noticed I don’t have the best of luck.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know the game I had in mind was one a’ skill.” Gloved hands planted themselves on those narrow shoulders, head dipping next to the man’s ear to sweeten the deal. “N’ the wager is bragging rights, since I know yer penniless.”

“Oh?”

“Yup.” Arthur looped around and pulled out one of his pistols, spinning it around his knuckle before presenting it to Kieran, grip first, “Shootin’ practice. Do well n’ maybe you can join me outside’a camp more often, too.”

Kieran perked at that, and Arthur would not soon forget how bright the man seemed to sparkle then; how dark, glossy eyes caught all the light that filtered in through the trees and bounced off the lake like polished obsidian.

“Count me in, Mr. Morgan!”

A short journey later, they dismounted their horses, dead grass crackling underfoot like crushed ginseng in a mortar of red earth. Insects buzzed about the muggy air, tiny bodies only visible when superimposed on the cloudless blue sky. He slapped one against his neck before he set himself to the task of arranging their targets. Though it had only just begun, Arthur was starting to regret this outing; throat parched for something cool and saccharine, with only old, warm whiskey in the bottom of his satchel to quench it. 

Arthur stood, hip cocked next to cheap whiskey and beer bottles meticulously placed on old, stoney ruins, squinting for his companion from under the brim of his hat. Kieran stood some paces away, running fingernails through Branwen’s mane while the animal ate from his palm.

“Comin’?”

“Y-yep!” Kieran jolted, moving like a gangly child that wasn’t quite sure how to contain his excitement. Arthur found the man’s hunched, wobbly gait odd, but decidedly cute. He retrieved his pistol from its holster and met Kieran halfway with easy sauntering steps.

“You _sure_ you’re ready for this?” The glare of the sun turned the corners of lips in a strained smile, eyes pinched into tight slivers as he assessed the other man.

“I saved yer _life_ , Arthur. I think I can shoot a gun.”

“Fair enough.” He extended his arm, weapon in hand.

Kieran took the gun gingerly, out of respect for the other’s possession, then held it firmly between both his hands, out of respect for the weapon; the power to take a life. His arms locked steadily, looking down the sights with knees shoulder width apart. An intimidating stance, if he didn’t toss a goofy look over his shoulder soon after.

“Well, go on then.” Arthur chuckled, tipping his hat to deflect the sun’s rays, “I says you can’t hit three a’ those bottles before you hafta reload.”

Kieran’s stare focused on the targets before them once more, chewing his lip in concentration. Arthur could see him calculating, wheels spinning wildly in the muggy silence. Then a shot rung out, followed by the break of glass and a bated breath. A few minutes had passed by the time he finally emptied the cylinder, four of his six bullets hitting squarely on their mark. Perhaps it wasn’t just luck that saved him at Six Point, after all.

Arthur whistled.

“Color me impressed, O’Driscoll.” He palmed his beard.

“How many times I gotta tell ya… I ain’t a-”

“N’ here I thought you was just Colm’s stable boy.” Arthur interrupted, dragging his glove down his face and wiping off his look of awed amusement before it stuck, “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“Th’ army.”

“S’that right?” He drawled, a smile coloring his voice.

That explained the slow, careful nature of each of his shots. There was something so reserved about government boys, too many thoughts bouncing ‘round their heads before they pulled the trigger. It was being quick on the draw that ensured the outlaw survived to see the consequence of his bullet; whether it save him or get him in a whole ‘nother mess of trouble.

Regardless, Arthur figured it was better a man know his morals and act on ‘em with no hesitation, than to ponder the ramifications of every bullet. Lest he drive himself insane, or die gettin’ there.

“Bet I could still teach you a thing or two.”

“Yea?”

“Sure. You got the technique but you need the mindset. Don't you worry, I’ll make a gunslinger outta you yet.” He held out his palm for the pistol with a smug smile, “Just follow my lead, Duffy.”

Taking the pistol in his right, he reloaded the chamber, then in his left, lobbed a bottle into the air. Pale eyes dulled as they followed its arch, peripheral vision blurring as time seemed to slow. Then from his hip his finger snapped on the trigger, watching the deep auburn glass explode before it ever hit the ground.

“Just gotta clear your head. Know what you want ‘fore you ever touch your gun.” He gestured in circular motions with the barrel of his gun, “Do all yer thinkin’ n’ yer monologuin’ on days like this, so you don't have to in a fight.”

“S’that what you do?”

“Sure. Much as Hosea might protest.” Arthur scratched the back of his neck bashfully, “In m’journal mostly.”

He cupped the handle of the gun to Kieran's palm in lieu of a more detailed response, holding it there until the other’s fingers coiled back around it.

“More importantly, you gotta breathe.” He whispered. Work worn hands slid up slender arms as he came to stand behind him, “In through your nose while you aim, n’ out through your mouth when you've met your mark. No hesitatin’ this time.”

Kieran let out a shuddered breath, visibly more nervous than before with Arthur's breath hot on his neck. Arthur tossed a bottle to the sky and Kieran pulled the trigger; but the shot rang hollow, glass toppling to the dirt with a dull thud.

“God _dangit_.” Kieran hissed, posture slumping as he kicked at the dirt.

“S'alright, I was makin’ you antsy.” Arthur laughed, stepping back and sitting himself down in the dirt, fishing ‘round the crate of empty bottles for another. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t delight in the effect he had on the other, “Try again. This next one's Colm O'Driscoll himself.”

Kieran bolstered his stance at the challenge, the chance to _really_ prove himself. His non-dominant arm hung casually at his side, face straight as stone with his gun pointed to the sky. The silhouette of a proper outlaw.

It wasn’t so much Kieran’s bullet that shattered the glass across the field this time around, but the fire in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> haven't worked on this fic in awhile so HOPEFULLy i actually finish it some day i still have ideas for like at least 6 more chapters but ive ben busy n getting my muse pulled in other directions


End file.
